


You Can't Always Get What You Want...

by scarlettgirl



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 10:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettgirl/pseuds/scarlettgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor, v10.5, bumps into a familiar face in an unlikely location.  Is his new world in danger or has he finally gone round the bend?  Post-"Journey's End" with all that pesky humanity intact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Always Get What You Want...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Blue Suit Doc" ficathon. Apologies in advance to any online gamers, any errors are totally mine despite the best efforts of Sadbhyl and Mydeira to bring me into the dark side.

“Pete, we have a serious problem. I need a team assembled immediately.”

It was to Pete’s credit that he only sighed deeply before closing the file on his desk. In the past there would probably have been eyerolling. And perhaps a forehead hitting the desk. Still, nothing to be done but to face it. For every tinned mackerel incident there was twice as many foiled invasions and zombie vaccinations. As much as the Doctor was the reason for the jumbo sized box of antacids in his top drawer, there was no getting around the fact that Pete needed to at least look at the rabbit before the Doctor chased it down the hole.

“Have you contacted Rose?” he asked in a deliberately calm voice as the Doctor strode into his office.

“No. Why would I contact Rose?” The Doctor wrinkled his nose in confusion. “She’s still in China with James, and besides, there’s no time. This is a matter of national security, of world security!” He threw himself into one of the deep leather chairs in front of Pete’s desk and began tapping his knee. “Why does everyone think I should contact Rose whenever there’s a problem? I do not need a minder!”

Pete raised an eyebrow knowingly and the Doctor had the good grace to blush slightly.

“That was an honest mistake,” he grudgingly admitted. “How was I supposed to know that pigeons were a protected species in this universe?”

Feeling sorry for the man, Pete Tyler refrained from bringing up the tinned mackerel. And the unfortunate incident with Martha Jones. As the head of Torchwood, he had a lot of influence, but even his power wasn’t enough to stop a restraining order.

“Okay, Doctor. Let’s hear it, what’s the emergency?” The “this time” was clearly implied.

Leaning forward, the Doctor’s eyes were intense. “I’ve run into someone from my past. Someone bad. Very bad.”

“Explain.”

“It’s a bit complicated, but there was another Time Lord, a very powerful and possibly insane Time Lord. At the very least a sociopath. And he’s here. Now.”

Giving the Doctor a measured look, Pete steepled his fingers and took a deep breath. “Go on.”

Seeming to realize that he had had Pete’s full attention, the Doctor continued on in a rush. “After…” he paused slightly, as if he were picking at an old wound. “After Rose came to this dimension, I ran into him again and he very nearly destroyed the world. Millions of people died, sort of, and if it wasn’t for…well, if it wasn’t for a very brave woman, he would have succeeded.” 

Pete had heard about the year that never happened from Rose, her resigned whispers filling his ear as they went to retrieve the Doctor from police custody after the Martha Jones incident. “I thought this Master had died?” Pete said. 

“Technically, he died. But that never seems to take with the Master. He’s like bloody Teflon.”

Considering for a moment, Pete made up his mind and reached for the phone. Punching in a series of numbers, he continued to question the Doctor.

“Where was he the last time you saw him?” He held up a finger and spoke into the phone. “Jake? I need a quick response team dispatched to…”

The Doctor jumped in, “The corner of Market and South.” 

Pete repeated the address. Putting his hand over the phone, Pete turned back to the Doctor. “I want to know what my team will be facing. What was this Master doing when you saw him?”

The Doctor nodded, agreeing that that a prepared team was an effective team. “He was delivering take-away. Curry, I think.” 

Pete closed his eyes and counted to ten. “You’re telling me this evil, insane sociopathic, somewhat dead Time Lord was delivering take-away?” 

“Exactly. Don’t you see? It doesn’t make sense. Why would the Master be delivering take-away? Particularly curry, he always loathed curry. Well, at least his…” the Doctor counted on his fingers “…his fourteenth incarnation did. But that’s not the point! It’s obviously a cover. He’s definitely up to something.”

Pete stared for a moment before taking his hand from the receiver. “Jake? Stand down. I’ll be in touch shortly.” Returning the phone gently to the cradle, he turned and gave the Doctor a long suffering look.

“What are you doing? Don’t you understand the implications of this, what we could be facing?” The Doctor’s face was rapidly turning red, indignation boiling just below the surface. “You never underestimate the Master.”

“Doctor,” Pete gave him a small smile, “I cannot send a full team of Torchwood operatives racing through the city to investigate a man delivering curry. A man who has done nothing more than look like someone you may have known in another world who, apparently, didn’t care for Indian food.”

The “I’ve done this one too many times” hung unspoken in the air.

The Doctor’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “But Pete, this doesn’t feel right.”

Considering for a moment Pete came to a decision. “Go ahead and look into this bloke, discreetly. If he still seems suspicious, report back to me and we’ll take it from there.”

Standing up, the Doctor nodded, moving with purpose toward the door. As his hand reached for the knob, Pete stopped him with a final instruction. 

“And Doctor? Try not to blow anything up this time.”

***  
Hiding behind a bus station advert later that evening, the Doctor watched as the Master grabbed a brown box filled with take-away cartons and swung through the murky door of New Delhi Delight. The small, narrow street was filled with specialty shops and grocers, their exotic fruits filling bins in front of windows lettered in foreign languages. There were several small restaurants doing a brisk business, the air redolent with spices and tea and the lilting conversations of several nationalities. It could have been any market on any planet, except the Doctor’s feet felt like clay on the ground and he knew it was here, in London, and would never be anything else.

The Doctor followed the man, staying well behind, making sure there were more than a few pedestrians in between them at all times. When the Master ducked into a slightly run-down building, the Doctor kept walking, head down, until he reached the corner. Waiting a few moments, he peered around the corner. Confident that the Master was still inside, he quickly walked the entrance, noting from the mail slots that the building contained four flats. With no names listed and the numbers giving no clue as to their occupants, the Doctor returned to his post around the corner and waited for the Master to emerge. After four hours, he gave up and went home.

The next day, the Doctor arrived on the street by 11:00 a.m. Filling a bag with bananas and Pocky, he kept an eye on the restaurant. At precisely 11:37, the Master swung out, carting another box. The Doctor quickly paid for his purchases and wove through the crowd, keeping his sights on the Master. 

Through the course of the day the Doctor followed the Master to countless office buildings, one dental surgery, a veterinarian clinic, a tidy garden flat, and motorcycle repair business. The Doctor’s feet ached and he felt slightly queasy from eating his way through three pounds of bananas and more Pocky than was good for any one person, human or Time Lord. Standing once more behind the advert, he watched as the Master waved to someone inside and once again hit the street. Following the man with markedly less enthusiasm than he’d started out with, he noted with interest they were retuning to the same street as the evening before. Once again the Master entered the block of flats. After casually waiting at the corner for nearly an hour, the Doctor began walking towards home, smug in the knowledge that he’d found the Master’s lair. Or at the very least his flat. But “lair” sounded so much more apt when thinking of the Master.

***   
The phone was ringing shrilly as he walked into his tiny flat. 

“Where’s your mobile?” the voice asked without prelude.

The Doctor groaned. “Hello, Jackie, lovely to hear from you.” Holding the phone from his ear and grimacing he waited for the onslaught. 

“Don’t give me that! I’ve been ringing you for two days now. Pete says you haven’t been near the office and where is your bloody mobile!”

The Doctor sank onto the rather uncomfortable nondescript chair that took up an inordinate amount of space in the postage stamp room. “Sorry, Jackie, didn’t mean to worry you. I lost my mobile…well, somewhere. Nuisance that thing is, always ringing when you don’t want it to,” he said. He could almost feel Jackie softening. For all of her bluster, he knew that she worried about him. Ever since he and Rose decided it might be for the best for the two of them to take some time to come to grips with who they were rather than who they were supposed to be, Jackie had added him to her collection of odd ducks and charges, checking up on him every few days and leaving the occasional hamper of food in his kitchen. He didn’t even want to think about how she circumvented his lock system.

“Well, as long as you’re okay,” she said reluctantly. “Just, check in at the office every now and again, okay? At least Pete can keep me updated. Don’t forget I can always just pop in.”

The Doctor smiled. At one point in his (other) life that threat might have had him running for the fastest Zeppelin out of London, but he’d learned, among so many other things, that Jackie Tyler was a valuable ally in a sometimes confusing world. “Thanks, Jackie, but no. I’m fine, just busy on a project. Tell Pete I’ll report in tomorrow.” 

He switched off the phone and leaned back in the chair and looked out of the curtainless window. Muddling through it all, he was. Using the wrong verbs and feeling out of synch with time but the night sky was just close enough to familiar to soothe his frazzled mind. As his eyes drifted shut he found, he had a curious desire for curry.

*** 

The next day, he kept his promise to Jackie and popped into Torchwood, waving to his long-suffering assistant on his way to Pete’s office. Learning that Pete would be detained in an all-day meeting with the delegates from Norway, he squared his shoulders and returned to his office to gather background material. Ignoring the stack of messages and files his assistant attempted to shove into his hands, he slid behind his desk and began a rudimentary data search.

“Helen, just put those down,” he said as the woman stood, tapping her toe at his office door. “You know I’m not going to look at them anyway. Now, if you want to do something really interesting, you can pop down to files and records and have that prat Niles search for any historical data on Market Street, particularly in the area of South, the New Delhi Delight restaurant, and any other establishment that once inhabited that address, any references to an individual who at any time referred to himself,” he paused, never could be too careful when dealing with the Master, “or herself as ‘The Master’. That should keep him busy for at least several hours.”

If the Doctor hadn’t known for a fact that Helen was a bright girl with a very ordinary life and very ordinary family, he’d have been frightened at the evil grin that lit up her face. Their mutual loathing for the insufferable Niles was the one thing that could even temporarily distract Helen from the infernal stack of busywork.

“Don’t think you’re getting out this,” she said, seeing through his ploy. “You know,” she continued thoughtfully, “it might be wise to have Niles cross-reference any of his findings with the Euro-database. It always pays to be thorough.”

The Doctor gave her a wide smile. “Quite right, too.”

***   
The data searched turned up all of nothing, which led the Doctor to believe that a) the Master was being extraordinarily clever; b) the Torchwood files were not as exhaustive as Niles claimed, a charge the prat had denied in a huff; or c) the man was actually not the Master. Dismissing the second two theories, the Doctor decided it was time for action. He situated himself at the corner opposite the Master’s block of flats and waited until he saw the man exit. Waiting an additional thirty minutes to make sure the Master didn’t double back, the Doctor strolled across the street and pondered the mail slots. Their blank faceplates gave him no answers so he opened the door and slipped inside. 

There were two doors on the first floor. Knocking on the one to his right, he listened as the occupant shuffled toward the door.

Opening the door a crack, a wizened face peered between the chain lock. 

The Doctor gave his most winning smile. “Yes, Health and Safety, I need to check your gas connections. There’s been a report of an unusual odor in the area and…”

“Fuck off.”

The door slammed in his face.

Straightening his tie, the Doctor sniffed. “Okay, then.”

There was a loud television behind the second door and the Doctor hesitated before turning away and moving up the stairs. Even though it wasn’t unknown for the Master to have a willing accomplice, he doubted it would be one that watched “Are You Smarter Than a 10 Year Old”.

He knocked on the third door, to the left of the stairs. Taking a slight step back to preemptively protect his nose, he called out “Health and Safety” for the benefit of the charming Gorgon in 101. When there was no response, he discreetly jiggled the lock. Slipping his hand into his inside jacket pocket, he pulled out a slim, Torchwood-issued lock picking kit. On days like this, the loss of his sonic screwdriver ached like a phantom limb. Making quick work of the mechanism, he hesitated. Knowing the Master, there was a secondary system, or at the very least a bucket of boiling oil over the doorway. Listening carefully, he eased the doorknob incrementally until the door was completely unlatched. Pushing it open as slowly as possible, he detected nothing more than a chain lock. Frowning at the lack of security, he pulled a small tool from the kit that dissolved the link on the chain. Torchwood left nothing to chance.

Still proceeding with caution, the Doctor pushed the door completely open and stepped aside just in case of oil, flying cutlery or whatever other devilry the Master devised. When he peered around the doorway, he was greeted with a perfectly ordinary flat. Stepping inside, he closed the door quietly behind him. 

He was immediately hit with an overwhelming sense of “bland”. Beige walls, beige carpets, a nondescript settee and matching chair. The room was tidy with no artwork on the wall. It was…disturbingly like his own flat. Shaking off the uncomfortable thought, he moved into the tiny kitchen. It was immaculate. Dishes stacked neatly in the drain, the counters bare. He opened the small refrigerator and noted with satisfaction a few cartons emblazoned with “New Delhi Delight”. At least he was in the right place.

Closing the door, he moved into the bedroom, another room devoid of personality. The Doctor made a vow that as soon as he was finished saving the world he was going shopping. When did he get to be so beige? Brown was a good color, strong, grounded but beige was just…nothing. Perhaps he’d get a quilt. A lovely, downy quilt in a sapphire blue…

Oh.

While he was mentally planning his very own “Trading Spaces,” he’d wandered into the second bedroom. The room fairly hummed with electronic equipment. Three computers were banked against the far wall, a sinister black server hummed and the remaining walls were filled with bookcases, neatly filled with manuals and, oddly, school texts.

Moving toward the nearest computer, he tapped the space bar, and the screen burst into light. The Doctor gaped. Sliding his chair over to the next station, he again hit the space bar, and then onto the third. Leaning back he struggled to process the flashing screens.

“Three days? Really, Doctor, you must be slipping.”

The Doctor whirled around and found the Master, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway. “It is you!”

“Unfortunately.”

“But…how? I mean are you… Wait…” The Doctor jumped from his chair and put his hand on the Master’s chest. “One heart!”

The Master rolled his eyes. “You always were a little slow, Doctor. Can’t blame that on your humanity.” He spat the word as if it was something nasty in his mouth.

Grabbing his arm, the Doctor dragged him into the lounge and tossed him onto the chair. “I want answers and I want them now.”

The Master arched an eyebrow and folded himself calmly into the chair. “Tsk, tsk. I know it’s been a long time, but there’s no need to get rough. Yet.”

Now it was the Doctor’s turn to roll his eyes. “How did you get here?”

The Master shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea.”

Glaring, the Doctor sat on the settee and crossed his arms. “You expect me to believe you end up in an alternate universe, half-human, and you have absolutely no idea how or why? Try again.”

The Master smirked. “Believe what you want, you freak, but it’s the truth.” He paused for a moment considering. “You know, until you showed up I did believe this was some sort of Transdimensional, holographic prison designed specifically to torture me. I was a bit impressed that you had it in you, actually. In this stinking pit of a planet, Martha Jones is _vice-president_? There was no other explanation.”

At the mention of Martha, the Doctor’s face darkened. “Oh, please. As if anyone could get close to her. That woman hands out restraining orders like they were free mints at an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

The Doctor smiled despite himself, “You, too, eh?”

The Master ignored the comment. “Then I saw you lurking around New Delhi Delight and I realized that this was worse than a transdimensional holographic prison. This is hell,” he concluded, glumly.

“Oh, it’s not so bad, once you get used to the odd taste in the air and learn the pigeon rules, anyway,” the Doctor said in a hearty, nearly convincing tone.

“How can you say that? We’re stuck here, in one place for all of time. And what’s worse, we’re apparently human. Which in the ‘are we in hell sweepstakes’ pretty much makes us the grand prize winners.” The Master dropped his head back on the chair and groaned.

The Doctor applauded. Snapping his head upright, the Master glared. 

“Very convincing performance,” the Doctor said lightly. “Now please explain why you think I’m human, what you’re up to, and why, for goodness’ sake, are you delivering curry?”

Rolling his eyes, the Master sighed. “Oh, all right, you caught me. Woo hoo, brilliant observation and all that rot. I suppose you’ll just bore me to death until I spill out my nefarious plans like some bad B movie villain.”

The Doctor raised his right eyebrow and waited.

“Fine. After you discovered me, I had you investigated. Learned you had mysteriously appeared in London three months ago and were immediately absorbed into Torchwood. Since that coincided with my waking up, naked, thank you very much, in a dank alley, I figured whatever stupid save the world trick you pulled out of your hat this time spectacularly backfired and took me along as collateral damage. I have…sources that confirmed your human condition. As for what I am doing delivering curry,” the Master shrugged, “a man has to eat, even a filthy, stinking human man. With no name, no credentials, I know it’s hard to believe, but my options were limited. Plus it gave me time and opportunity to become comfortable in this new reality.”

“And what about…” the Doctor gestured to the small room filled with computer equipment.

Coloring slightly, the Master sat up straight. “I,” he said in an arch tone, “am building an army.”

The Doctor stared for a full thirty seconds before chuckling. Ignoring the Master’s glare, he took a deep breath and composed his face. “You’re building an army?” the Doctor said, his voice trembling. 

The Master sniffed and looked away. “I don’t know why you find this so amusing. I am nothing if not resourceful. I’m merely taking advantage of an available commodity and turning it to my advantage.”

The Doctor gave up all pretenses and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shaking, he choked out, “An army!” before collapsing again in helpless laughter.

“Go ahead and laugh, but it’s been very effective. My inner circle has been maximized at 75 commanders. Each commander has a 75 captains and each captain has a squad with a minimum of 1,000 members. Do the math, Doctor. I am very supported.”

“It’s bloody World of Starcraft!”

The Master gave him a withering look. “Your point?”

“My point is, it’s bloody World of Starcraft! You’re not building an army, you’re playing a video game.”

“I am the admiral of a virtual army that, I might add, is the largest MMORPG in this puny, little world. And yes, it’s a little unorthodox,” he conceded, “but there are some very well-placed people involved in the game, people who are lonely and are just looking for someone to understand them. I can be very understanding with the right motivation, and people respond to my obvious sincerity.”

The Doctor snorted.

“People with access to nuclear codes,” the Master added ominously.

“Of course they have,” the Doctor chortled. “And you know this how?”

“I investigate, follow ISP codes, set up systems of verification,” the Master said. “I have a very clever young man, Rattigan, who is absolutely brilliant with encryption. He’s found the most interesting things. And of course there are the communiqués.”

The Doctor looked delighted. “Are you saying you are supported in email?”

“Mock me all you want, you cretin, but the fact is I have set up a network that, at the click of a few keystrokes, are at my command.”

Stretching out his legs, the Doctor leaned back on the settee, his arms crossed behind his head. “Oh, do go on. What’s your next step, planning a virtual raid on the government?”

The Master shifted uncomfortably. All of a sudden the Doctor realized that for all his mocking and the utter ridiculousness of the entire situation, no computer system in any universe was impervious and there was very real chance that the Master and his Starfleet army could wreak a bit of havoc.

Reaching for his Torchwood-issue lock picking kit one more time, he extracted several small disks. Walking quickly into the office he placed one on the server and on the hard drive of each computer.

“Mini-EMP devices,” he explained over his shoulder. “All I have to do is press this,” the Doctor pressed a small control device, “and whiz bang, no more data.”

The Master stood in the doorway and looked bored as the machines suddenly ceased their low hum. 

“At the very least it will slow you down for a few days,” the Doctor said.

“I don’t suppose I could submit a reimbursement form to Torchwood for the very expensive equipment your little cracker prize just fried?” the Master asked.

Grinning, the Doctor flicked the remote control closed. “I’m sure you can rally your army into a whipround. Probably get a laptop out of it at the very least.”

“Quite the comedian you are these days,” the Master replied, examining his fingernails. “You do realize that I will try again.”

“And you do you realize that I will stop you.”

The Master smiled sweetly. “Well, you will try.”

They stood looking at each other for a few minutes before the Doctor patted his pockets, finding the small case and sliding the remote inside.

“Well, that’s it then,” he said, moving past the Master and toward the door of the flat. “I suppose I should mention that Torchwood will be around it the morning to collect all of this rubbish, block any future internet access and probably toss in a fine for excessive downloading.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The Doctor’s hand hesitated on the doorknob. “I don’t suppose…” he began. “Never mind,” he stuttered, pulling the door open.

“Oh, what it is?” the Master said irritably. “You might as well tell me now before you get downstairs and have to walk back up, because you know you will.”

Flushing, the Doctor turned. “I was just wondering if you’d, I don’t know, like to go grab a pint or something. It’s not like there’s all that many half-human Time Lords running about. Might be interesting to compare notes.”

“Good lord, are you asking me on a date?” the Master groaned. “Now I know I am in hell.”

“You wish,” the Doctor retorted. “Have it your way, then. I have no doubt we’ll bump into each other the next time your megalomania gets out of hand.”

“Oh, whatever,” the Master said as he slammed the door.

***  
 _Three days later_

The Doctor tossed his jacket onto the sapphire blue sofa that now filled the flat. Grabbing a bottle of Vitex and a sandwich from the kitchen, thoughtfully provided by Jackie and her magical hamper, he flicked on the computer monitor.

Quickly typing in a password, he began scanning the screen, looking for clues.

Aha! There he was. Still a level 49, the Doctor noted smugly. Logging in his character, he checked his arsenal, more than enough to take the wind out of a paltry level 49. He took a bite of sandwich, selected a T-class spacecraft and engaged in liftoff. He paused on his way to the Blue Sun system to help a group of settlers battle a rogue band of Space Monkeys because, really, Space Monkeys? No one should lose health points over something so absurd. Finally he was close enough to open a chat window.

**RightHndMan:** Still only a 49? I would have suspected a bit of power leveling by your massive army by now. Wait, what’s that smell? Smells like A COUP!

**xxxMasterOfAnarchyxxx:** That’s rich considering you have a space monkey on your arse.

Bollocks. The Doctor swung around and dispensed with the Space Monkey before it gained zombie power. What was with this universe and zombies anyway?

**xxxMasterOfAnarchyxxx:** And you appear to be on fire! Suck on that, monkey-lover.

The Doctor engaged his defenses, grabbing another bite of his sandwich before feinting to the left. Grinning madly, he pulled a classic stall and drop tactic that the Master mirrored only a nanosecond later. Apparently he had been paying attention in their “Physics of Ancient Air Warfare” class at the Academy.

He could try and justify to himself that he was merely flying through cyberspace to keep tabs on the Master, but really, Torchwood could do that without battling rogue space monkeys and shutting down goldspammers. The fact of the matter was that he was having fun. It had startled him that the buoyant feeling had felt so odd. As if his feet had been sinking into the mud for so long he’d forgotten the sheer lightness of joy. Like his new blue sofa, it wasn’t much. But it was a start.


End file.
